


It's us.

by verdantspace



Category: Digimon - All Media Types, Digimon Adventure, Digimon Adventure tri.
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Non-Graphic Breathplay, in quite a messed up way, taichi and yamato love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 17:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6123882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verdantspace/pseuds/verdantspace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It makes sense when I'm with you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's us.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, my second Taito story. Well, it’s not a _story_ , per se, more like snippets I’ve written that are quite similar in genre and style, so I thought, what the hell, and tried to put them in linear order. This is what I get. It’s vague and full of holes, but kind of what I’m aiming for with this writing style. Hope you like? Ehehe.
> 
> (Also I didn’t want it to have dialogue, but somehow ended up using too many italics to write dialogues...I fail but it’s nothing new.)
> 
> It has Dom/sub undertones because I’m a big fat bitch for that. Also I’ve been listening to Lana Del Rey, so the end feels a bit darker than the rest. Their heads (especially Yamato’s) are kind of screwed up, but what can I say. I like it that way.
> 
> (Edit: 16/03/15)
> 
> I deleted my old tumblr blog because of reasons and made a new one. Come say hi and cry with me about Taiyama [@verdantspace](http://verdantspace.tumblr.com)

It’s Taichi running on the field, restless and so fierce that even the rain can’t erase the trail of blaze he’s left on grassy plains. Yamato’s voice is hoarse from screaming, and he’s vaguely aware that he shouldn’t be straining his vocal chords because he has a live performance scheduled for the weekend, but he doesn’t care.

Not when Taichi’s passion burns him just the same, even when that heat isn’t directed straight at him.

He’s a blur of speed and power, ruthless and electric and _calculating_ , and though not many people know of his shrewd side, Yamato sees it crystal clear. Yamato sees it when Taichi flirts with playing dirty, swiftly tackling an opponent and getting away with it because everything Taichi Yagami does is heroic and _noble_ , and oh how _wrong_ they are, Yamato thinks as he hollers at Taichi to give him a wink. An appreciative gesture of Taichi’s cunning, because Yamato is no saint.

Taichi diverts his attention from the game—a stunt he only does when Yamato’s involved—to shout back at the blond, yelling _I’ll be expecting my prize!_ for everyone to hear, and Yamato doesn’t even have the decency to feel ashamed, because his whole being _yearns_ to give Taichi his prize. To give and give until what remains of him is what Taichi has in his palms.

In his reverie, Yamato almost misses the goal, but he does witness the most important millisecond, when the ball finally stops spinning due to its friction with the safety net. The roaring doesn’t start until moments later, when the crowd finally registers that Taichi Yagami has just scored the winning goal.

Yamato can’t remember running or even jumping, but he feels it when Taichi’s arms locked tightly around his body with bruising force.

Taichi’s tongue in his mouth, pushing deep and obscene like he’s searching for Yamato’s taste—a hint of mint licorice, diluted with rain water. He growls when he finally samples it, shoving forward and making Yamato’s neck stretch almost painfully from receiving his kisses, stronger than usual due to post-game high, and Yamato trembles in his arms.

A minute or millennia later, they part for much needed air.

They’re still locked in an embrace, their world reduced to a tunnel vision of each other, when Yamato hears Taichi’s teammates’ catcalling and shouting obscenities, calling Taichi a fucking lucky bastard.

 _No, it’s not just him,_ Yamato thinks, looking at the golden boy in his arms, **_we’re_** _the lucky ones._

* * *

It’s Yamato under the spotlight, owning the stage like it’s his throne, looking regal in his leather jacket and ripped jeans. Yamato’s a vision of beauty—it’s an empirical fact—but when he’s singing like this, his beauty takes second place to the way he _inspires_.

He inspires various things, Taichi thinks, from professional respect for his musicality to the dirtiest thought at the sight of that pale skin shimmering with sweat, those pouty lips whispering about pure love and violent sex in the same stanza. Also homicidal tendencies, maybe, mostly directed at Taichi because the blond king already has a consort, one who whose bond to the king can only be severed through death.

 _They don’t know about us,_ Yamato sings, and Taichi agrees wholeheartedly. Everyone thinks they’re the cool hotshot couple—an ace striker and the frontman of a rock band, practically a publicist’s wet dream—but it’s an image built in a split second, constructed only at first glance. There are things they are not privy to, things that only belong to Taichi and Yamato.

They don’t know about how Yamato prefers chocolate chip cookies to expensive truffles. They don’t know that they watch reruns of Adventure Time, throwing popcorn kernels at each other all the while just to be little shits. They don’t know that despite being the one labeled as the alpha male, Taichi is the one more prone to anxiety attacks. Whenever it gets bad, Yamato lets him rest his head on his lap with the blond’s fingers stroking soothing motions on his scalp.

They don’t know that no matter how rough the sex gets, no matter how hard Taichi’s fucking Yamato into the mattress, Taichi never fails to smile at him. A big, stupid grin on his face as he says _I love you, I’m so in love with you,_ voice sweet and affectionate in contrast to his viciously thrusting hips, fucking the reply out of Yamato in forms of loud, keening moans.

Taichi doesn’t need words because he already knows the answer, anyway.

* * *

 

It’s the two of them seeing each other for the first time in almost a year, taking in the sight of each other and frantically noting even the slightest of changes. Yamato’s eyes are bright with wonder and _longing_ , and Taichi feels choked up when he moves forward to put tentative fingers on Taichi’s tie, uncharacteristically hesitant but no less lovely. Yamato strips him of the garment, followed by his jacket and dress shirt, leaving the brunette in only his thin undershirt. Almost a year of constant office hours makes Taichi feel out of shape, but he can see that Yamato appreciates him just the same; the way the ghost of a smile appears on his face.

A rustle and Yamato is on his knees, working on Taichi’s belt buckle. The gesture is nothing sexual, Yamato’s movements too precise and clinical to have an underlying meaning, but Taichi’s breath hitches all the same. He steps out of his trousers and holds Yamato down by his shoulder, a silent request that Yamato deciphers in a millisecond. The blond sighs and relaxes, staying on his knees with his weight supported by Taichi’s legs, face pressed to Taichi’s thigh.

Taichi’s hand—still the same big, calloused hand that Yamato loves very much—moves with a familiar rhythm. Stroking Yamato’s cheek, cupping the back of his neck, tugging gently on his hair, and finally slipping fingers inside of his mouth, which opens readily at the intrusion, eager to take in any part of Taichi.

 _Lovely,_ Taichi sighs, reverent, _still so lovely._

Yamato smiles up at him in reply and tugs at Taichi’s boxers. The brunette gets the message and hauls him upwards, almost dead weight in Taichi’s arms.

 _Tired, sleep first,_ Yamato speaks into Taichi’s shoulder, _we can make love tomorrow?_

It’s not often that Yamato’s in this mellow mood, lax and yielding and mendable by Taichi’s hands. It makes Taichi want to hide him away from the world forever, his extensive fanclub be damned.

He hums his affirmative and carries Yamato to their bed, absently noting that he’s gotten lighter. Again. The harsh life of an entertainer, Taichi notes, and not for the first time wishes that his management would do something to ease Yamato’s absurdly packed schedule.

As an Ambassador, Taichi has his busy days, but nothing brutal like Yamato’s tours and promotions and public appearances. This weekend is a rare occurrence, where Taichi can have Yamato all to himself for three whole days.

Berlin—the city Taichi’s currently posted in—is a beautiful, magnificent city with an abundance of magnificent sights and historic values, but he doubts that they’re going to be leaving this room.

They fall on the nondescript hotel bed, too tired to do more than exchange lazy kisses, snuggled together under the blanket.

* * *

 

It’s a memory posing itself as a dream, and Taichi sees it in linear precision.

It was a cold Monday night in Yamato’s apartment, silent and chilly and suffocating. Taichi was an official runaway, having just run out of his house after a huge fight with his family. He had just broken the news that he wanted to pursue a political career, choosing international relations as his major. Needless to say that his parents were shocked by the abrupt change of plans, and voiced their disapproval rather pointedly. Even Hikari was skeptical, and Taichi almost broke down because of it.

Taichi was never the type to handle rejection well, and he practically exploded, storming out of the house like an angry hurricane.

He remembered being heartbroken, filled with self-doubt and anger and on the verge of an anxiety attack when Yamato yanked him by the shirt, harshly pulled on Taichi’s brunette hair and hissed _fucking coward_ , his voice dripping with venom.

Anger tinted his world red, and the next thing Taichi knew he was slamming Yamato against the wall, prepping him fast and hard with fingers that were meant to bruise rather than ease the way. Yamato had always handled pain well—sometimes with a hint of eagerness that never failed to terrify and excite Taichi at the same time, now evident from the way he kept moaning and bucking into Taichi’s intruding fingers.

A minute later, he had Yamato pressed against the wall and his hard body, practically bouncing the blond on his cock. Taichi’s eyes never left Yamato’s exquisitely twisted expression—pain and pleasure blurring together—and he didn’t know what his face looked like, but Yamato met his gaze dead on, still so defiant in his vulnerable position. Taichi saw it when his lips move, struggling to form words instead of obscene cries and mewls.

 _Do it, Taichi,_ eighteen year-old Yamato said, voice wispy and breathless but not losing its vehemence. Taichi felt entranced, because he was certain that his fucking should have robbed Yamato of his coherence. _Your life is in your hands,_ he strained to say, _do it and fucking prove it to them._

It was then that Taichi realized what Yamato was trying to do. The way he did it was so very _Yamato_ that Taichi plunged deep, deeper than he thought possible, so madly and deeply in love, never going to climb out.

 _Shit, Yamato, I love you, you’re mine, God, I’m never fucking letting you go,_ he babbled, frantic in the wake of his own realization.

Yamato’s eyes seemed to be laughing at his admission. _And you’re mine,_ he rasped, _now prove that you’ve got what it takes to_ own _me, Yagami._

With a kiss that promised of everything, Taichi indulged him.

* * *

It’s the one and only love Yamato has ever experienced.

Yamato used to look at the sweet scented, pink tinted love letters his fans sent him with a skeptical eye. They always bore some sort of heart, drawn beside his name or pasted on the envelope—symbolic of their love for Yamato, it seemed.

He was grateful of their support, but he couldn’t help to think _what a load of bullcrap_.

Yamato’s idea of love isn’t tender and sweet and perfumed. He refuses to believe something as fleeting as shy kisses and stunted confessions are enough, because they don’t leave marks. If love was meant to last, then it should scorch him, Yamato thinks.

Love is supposed to make him feel.

Taichi knows how to make him _feel_ , feel it so acutely and keenly that he’s left numb and electrified with the sensation of it all. Taichi’s love is full of fire, burning so hot that it turns blue and Yamato walks willingly inside the flames, let it engulf him and leave burn marks all over his heart.

It hadn’t always been that way, however, because there was a time when it was soft and gentle, nearly driving Yamato crazy with its mellifluousness.

Kind, righteous Taichi had been so oblivious of his own powers, blinded by his need to cherish and protect Yamato, _(Yamato scoffed at that)_ , that he turned still as a stone the first time Yamato offered his throat for Taichi to press down on. He was so terrified—but also evidently turned on, because he stayed hard inside of Yamato—that even taunting him didn’t get him to react. Or maybe he was horrified because he stayed erect? Yamato didn’t know for sure.

All it took was for Yamato to droop his eyelids and make his body go slack for Taichi to start breathing again, focusing back on his boyfriend with wide brown eyes. Through the haze of his need to be held down, Yamato pleaded, _please do it, Taichi,_ and he almost didn’t recognize his own voice, wet and soaked in desire as it was, _I need it, need you to do it. For me._

Maybe it was Yamato’s voice, or maybe his eyes, but something in Taichi shifted in response to his plea. When he returned Yamato’s gaze, the blond shivered, because he knew. He knew that he’d successfully sparked that flame.

 _Okay_ _,_ Taichi rasped, determination in his eyes, _I’ll give you what you need._

Yamato had smiled, because once he got it started, he knew he would be able to make it their permanent arrangement.

It’s an endless power play, passion filled and never nearing a finish line because they never want it to end.

It may be twisted, and a little crazy, but it’s them.

And they like it (love each other) that way.


End file.
